by Sara Backer
For several months, this snow
has held us under siege, indentured servants
of the shovel, supplicants at power line altars.
We drive through gray crystallized mazes,
forced into potholes, blind at every corner.
Our eyes burn from ceaseless white:
walls, windows, ground, and sky. I threaten
to paint each room lime green and you almost agree.
We hunker under the blanket we call Old Sparky,
and our old cat chisels herself between us.
After midnight, a full moon makes the clouded sky
bright as day—and pink?
I wake you. You confirm the sky is pink.
We never figure out the mystery.